


States of Matter

by Zai42



Series: October 2020 [9]
Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Size Difference, Triple Drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:21:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26909560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zai42/pseuds/Zai42
Summary: Zolf isn't much taller than Grizzop.Prompt: Strength/Muscles
Relationships: Grizzop drik Acht Amsterdam/Zolf Smith
Series: October 2020 [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1946893
Comments: 14
Kudos: 27
Collections: A Wilde Ride October Collection





	States of Matter

**Author's Note:**

> I needed something soft today. Back to our regularly scheduled kink/whump/gore tomorrow. <3

Grizzop is under no delusions about his stature. He is small, and the world has made sure he never forgets it. He worked hard, to become strong enough to make up for it - he is lithe and fast and whipcord-powerful, to be able to stand against foes bigger than he is. He is used to it, now. To being treated like something irritating and insignificant and easy to crush. He makes them all regret it, eventually, but it irks every time.

Zolf is - he’s not much taller than Grizzop, no, but he’s solid in a way Grizzop isn’t, thicker, sturdier. His hands can close easily around Grizzop’s wrists, with room to spare. Both can nearly close around his waist.

Zolf has never laid so much as a finger on Grizzop that has been anything close to insignificant. He touches him, not like he is breakable, but like he is precious, something to be treasured.

It isn’t a feeling Grizzop is used to, at first. It takes time, not to see it as an insult.

Zolf runs his palm over the flat plane of Grizzop’s stomach, skimming over his skin like the wind over water, just the barest brush of pressure. Grizzop lazes against him, curling his own hand around Zolf’s bicep. His fingers don’t come close to touching.

“Still with me?” Zolf rumbles, thumb sweeping over the jut of Grizzop’s hip.

Grizzop hums, cradles Zolf’s wrist and guides his hand up to his chest, flips them lazily so Zolf can bear down with his weight; Grizzop arches up, molds every inch of himself to Zolf’s body, relishing the feel of thick thighs, the curve of Zolf’s belly. He curls his arms around Zolf’s neck, leans up to press a kiss to his jaw. “Still with you,” he says, and smiles.


End file.
